


Promise of Two Souls

by rubberbandman



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Demon Deals, Demonic Possession, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, I guess???, Jay Gatsby Lives, M/M, Pining, Title sucks, alternative ending, ill come up with another later, inspired by a quote im too lazy to find, jay is SUFFERING, nick is hopelessly in love, this is really weird
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25104529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubberbandman/pseuds/rubberbandman
Summary: inspired by that one specific rumor that was mentioned in the book about gatsby making a deal with the devil?? or something like that (i still haven't found it haha....,,)i won’t explain much more besides that...and that, of course, nick and gatsby’s relationship WILL develop. be p a ti ent, they’re both dumb gays.this text is near unedited, read at your own risk
Relationships: Nick Carraway/Jay Gatsby
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr @/rubberbandfellow !!  
> im not all that active but i want tgg friends,,,,, lonely,,.,
> 
> note: i don't use caps because im lazy and i dont feel like turning autocorrect back on. there also used to be italics but when i pasted the text in here they all went (phwoosh) so sorry about that :((

i’d felt death hanging low in the air, like a cruel, humid smog as i left work far too early. it left a film over my eyes and stuck to the walls of my lungs like the gray in the valley of the ashes, cutting my breathing short and leaving my head feeling detached. it took the place of the oxygen in the air and made me feel i was on the brink of death myself. 

i sped today, as fast as daisy had run down myrtle. the speedometer read sixty-five miles-per-hour. the smog hadn’t leaked from the asphalt or the gas tank of my dodge— it was somewhere farther. it was coming from gatsby’s. 

rush hour hadn’t struck just yet and no one shared my urgency. i received the angered blows of horns and raised fists and fingers as i held my foot firm to the gas, not letting any apologies escape my mouth. if death had held their heart now as it held mine, they’d be understanding. i didn’t spare them a passing glance as i swerved around their glaring bumpers, keeping sight of the end of the bridge i hadn’t remembered crossing onto. west egg was near, i reassured myself. but death squeezed my lungs again and thrummed against my temples, shaking pessimistic sense back into my soul. i was near, but i was too late.

i dug my thumbs into my steering wheel as i passed onto the tree-shrouded street of west egg, speeding past mansions with reckless abandon. i was going closer to seventy now— with no cars on the road, my fear had entirely dissipated. my mind ceased all thought of consequences— death had vignetted my vision as i looked on at the well-paved street. all i could see was gatsby’s rooftop, glinting in the midday sun. 

the screech of the brakes went almost entirely unheard— my heart was far louder, hammering at the sides of my ribcage. it told me, move, move, move as it beat horridly into my bones and skin of my chest. i wiped away sweat that had beaded at my forehead and my skin tingled at the touch of my own fingers. i hardly felt real. 

my dress shoes seemed to sink into hard asphalt like quicksand. running felt like a slower process than i had remembered it, from running in the summer clover in minnesota, digging my heels into the dirt and feeling like a quick-winged bird and a child all at once. move, move, move my heart insisted all the more, and i pushed myself off the ground on my toes in flying strides. the gate to gatsby’s garden seemed to tear away from me. i should have parked in his driveway instead of mine. 

when i reached out and grabbed the gate, i was surprised to have found it left open. i pushed it aside and ran straight through, feeling like a ghost passing onto his property. death had constricted me so it felt as if i was no longer breathing, though my chest heaved and rattled with the summer air. i stopped not far from gatsby’s pool, skidding in some late-blooming flowers i hadn’t realized were beneath my feet. i felt no remorse for their torn stems yet.

there were wet footprints splattered on the stone surrounding the great pool. they lead straight into the back door. i swallowed, hoping those were belonging to gatsby. 

i decided to call out to him rather impulsively, “Gatsby?”

my voice echoed as it never usually had in the garden, with nothing to drown it out. nothing moved, nothing spoke. not even a butler or a servant or a housekeeper… or any of wolfsheim’s folks, for that matter. the garden and the pool were empty. however, not entirely vacant. death still seemed to linger. 

thats when i saw the toes of two oil-stained workboots in a patch of sky blue hydrangeas. they pointed up, toward the sky. 

“Hello?”

i called out to the boots. it was foolish of me to think their owner was simply watching the sky. death smacked me in the back of the head like a disappointed mother. i walked over to the boots, down the garden aisle, which was meticulously arranged by color. blue hydrangeas cocooned a man with closed eyes, covered in dirt, blackened oil, ashes… it was george wilson. 

there was a gun in his hand, or rather, laying on his hand. pushing the hydrangeas aside slightly, i looked at the gun. it was still loaded. 

i leapt back, as if wilson would spring up and shoot me between the eyes that second. but that didn’t happen. he laid there, motionless and limp. he sure looked dead, but the petals of the flowers were untainted. the leaves nor the petals held droplets of blood. they were clean, cradling nothing but spheres of water from the sprinklers. some of this water had drizzled onto wilson’s face. he was clean as well. clean of blood, that is. i began to feel doubtful of the death that ached my stomach.

“Wilson? George? Hello?” i raised my voice slightly, kneeling to push the hydrangeas aside again to get a better view of his face. he was pale as death, paler than usual, but seemingly untouched. 

i decided it wouldn’t be smart to try to wake him, especially with a gun in his hand. i reached over to his other hand, bending it back slightly and pressing down on the soft spot of his wrist to take his pulse. i felt no beat beneath my thumb. i moved my thumb about his wrist and bent his hand in different ways in case i went about taking his pulse incorrectly, but no matter what, i couldnt feel the beat of his blood in his veins. taking my own pulse the same way, i confirmed it. george wilson was dead.

i put his hand where i found it, beneath the flowers. death settled in my gut again, like cherry pits i’d swallowed by accident. it felt wrong to handle the dead man any more, so i stood up and walked away, leaving the gun atop his palm. 

his gun was still loaded, so that meant he hadn’t shot gatsby, i thought. it was a reassuring thought, something to ease the ache of my worry. i walked out the garden, silently, trying not to draw in the attention of anyone else. i worried wilson’s death would be connected to me in some way if that happened. i also worried wilson’s death would be connected to gatsby. that was definite, though. gatsby would certainly be the first suspect, especially since george wilson had been after him. 

i wondered briefly how he died. it was a possibility gatsby killed him— a rather large one, at that— though i couldn’t figure out how. i felt the sweat that had built up in my palms with my thumbs. i wiped my hands on my pants, finding that there were footprints on the hardwood floor of the deck, where you’d be surrounded by twisters of silk, cotton, lace dresses and the tapping shoes of well-dressed men at their heels, had it been nighttime. 

but it was around noon, and though there were traces of hundreds of feet, this pair i followed was certainly the ones i was searching for. i had stepped on an orange slice along the way, and i had to huck it off the bottom of my shoe. it landed somewhere in a great, big laurel with a quiet, leafy sound. someone had left a pearly high heel behind— just one— on the deck as well. 

gatsby— assuming the footprints belonged to him— had left his back doors open. shut, but not locked. i twisted the doorknob and pushed them open, and they creaked. i was never able to hear their creak in the nighttime, but now it seemed like a scream in the hallways, a rude greeting. i slowly shut the doors, hoping they would not creak again, however this just drew out the creak, making my presence more abrasive.

the halls were empty. there was the gentle voice of somebody ive never heard before from the kitchen. assuming it was one of wolfsheim’s, i walked down the halls, not taking the time to peer into any of the rooms. gatsby never spent his time down here. 

i didn’t hear klipspringer tapping at the ivories either, so i tried my best to make my way to the stairs. they’d lead me to gatsby’s haven up above, where the floors shined without needing to be repolished from the scuff of drunkard’s shoes. it was harder to reach these stairs, though, harder than i had presumed. it was easier with gatsby two steps ahead of me, weaving through the intricacies of the mansion. i wondered if he really knew every room of the house. had he rehearsed them for the sake of daisy’s tour, or had he really knew them? 

knew him as he knew me, after this summer of countless spontaneous visits. i was surprised to find he actually took the effort to remember what i’d tell him and echo it back every so often. it made my heart flutter in the way it did when he told what seemed to be the truth about himself; it made him feel earthly. intricate— more than simply a dreamer with tunnel vision. i smiled to myself briefly, before wilson’s still pulse bore deep into my mind. i bit my lip as i remembered i’ve still had no proof that gatsby was, in fact, still alive. 

he— or whoever— must have dried their feet at the door, because i saw no footprints around the house. but, once i found the stairway, i found a bit of water on the first stair. so, up i went. 

a man in an apron eyed me on my way down. i hadn’t recognized him, but he seemed to know me, evidently. he used my name.

“Nick Carraway, sir. what are you doing here?” 

he spoke with an accent i couldn’t place, but he looked similar to wolfsheim, maybe a little stouter. i paused on my ascent to think of my response.

“i’m here to talk to gatsby. i called him earlier and he hadn’t picked up, so i got uneasy and came to check on him.”

“a good friend you are— very good,” the man nodded his head as if making an important statement, “he’s just fine.”

“could you tell me where he might be?”

he paused and looked me in the eyes. he looked caught, like he regretted stopping to talk to me.

“afraid not.”

he ended the conversation with that, and quickly began to make his way down the stairs without a word. i sighed and continued my way up, stepping in more water as i neared the top.

the door to his room was the first that was closed and latched. I rapped twice upon it, the finish on the wooden door feeling sleek under my knuckles. 

“are you in there, gatsby? it’s nick— nick carraway.”

id heard something moving behind the door, but now it had stopped. i rapped twice more.

“i just wanted to make sure you were alright, gatsby.”

sincerity infiltrated my tone, rendering my voice far softer than it had been when i had called to him the first time. i hoped he could hear me through the hardwood door, if he was in there. there was more shuffling, moving, scuttling… panicked, muffled motions from behind the door.

then silence. 

i waited outside the door, shifting as loudly as i could manage to make my presence known. if he was there. sighing, i knocked my last two knocks. my hope was dwindling. 

“i tried to call you, but no one answered, so… here i am. i just want to see you.”

there was a hesitant shuffling and then a, “just a minute, old sport!” from behind the door. gatsby lives! 

i sighed the death from my lungs and my breathing began to return to normalcy. gatsby lives.


	2. Chapter 2

i heard the door being unlatched from the other side and out swung gatsby. he was in a pink, silk robe, a bathing suit still beneath it, sporting the most charming half-grin. i flushed slightly, smiling back after staring like an awestruck fool. 

and though it charmed me, something felt off. as i looked at him, i found red-rimmed eyes, messed, still-wet hair, and a very flushed face. his eyelids seemed heavier somehow, and the circles beneath his eyes looked more apparent. 

his smile weakened as we stood in silence, seemingly studying eachother in a way we normally hadn’t. with the smile gone, gatsby looked distressed.

“im doing just fine, old sport,” he chimed almost as if he read my mind, voice sounding uncharacteristically raw.

i frowned. he seemed to sense my disbelief,

“i know, i— i look...” gatsby stammered, seeming unable to handle his situation, “i know… well, of course, daisy… she’s weighing my mind.”

that wasn’t a lie, but it felt like it wasn’t the whole truth. there was another brief silence, as i couldnt figure out what next to say or do. i wanted to reach out and embrace him, but too many questions lingered in my mind. most regarding the unscathed body of george wilson in his garden.

“can i come in?” i asked instead, and gatsby stepped to the side for me to join him. i did so, shutting the door behind me.

“i am flattered at your concern, nick— i really am,” he shut the door quickly with his elbow, hands stuffed in the pockets of his robe, “but i am doing just fine. i just— daisy hasn’t called and, you know i—“

i shook my head, “i know that.”

“you do?” gatsby lowered his voice.

i hadn’t. i knew she wouldn’t have called him purely by intuition. i nodded anyhow.

i sat atop a red loveseat that was opposite the entryway and folded my hands in my lap, looking up at gatsby. i tried to look expectant— maybe he’d tell me more. he instead sat on the coffee table before the red loveseat and returned the same look. 

“i just feel as if… i’ve lost her.” he shook his head and sighed defeatedly.

“you have,” i answered hesitantly, thinking back to what i had seen through their kitchen window last night, “i don’t think she and tom will stick around much longer.” 

he sighed and sulked, hunching over a bit. i thought to mention the body in his garden, but held back. he looked shattered enough at this moment.

“i’m sorry, gatsby.”

“you’ve done all you possibly could for me. there’s nothing for you to be sorry about,” he buried his face in his hands, rubbing roughly at shut eyelids.

i watched him, shifting tensely on the loveseat. i couldn’t help but feel as if i hadn’t done enough for him. daisy wasn’t gone yet, she surely would be soon, but maybe i could convince her. for gatsby.

i shook my head to myself— daisy was surely gone now, and after the incident with myrtle and now her husband… i wasn’t sure gatsby would be around much longer either. daisy wouldn’t be convinced. i dont think i could bring myself to speak to her or her husband anyhow. gatsby didn’t deserve such a woman as my cousin.

“i really didn’t do much— i just put you in contact with daisy again,” and look how far that got you, my conscience added harshly. my stomach churned. i had played a part in ruining gatsby’s life, had i not? 

“you did everything for me, old sport. don’t be so modest,” gatsby looked up from his palms, “you did everything.”

there was an indescribable moment of eye contact between us— both tense and natural, somehow. gatsby’s eyes seemed to promise me in all of their robin’s egg splendor with a vulnerability i hadn’t seen in them before. a promise that he was telling the truth.

i grunted embarrassingly and looked down, my face growing warm with blood. he didn’t understand. tried and cared as i did, it didn’t change the fact that i had played a part in ruining him. 

“you speak too highly of me, gatsby.”

i couldn’t bring myself to say much more. i didn’t want to convince him he was wrong. his praise felt good, however misplaced. if not truly special, i still wanted to feel as if i were special to  
him. even if it were a lie.

gatsby glanced at me and smiled, eyes glinting in sunlight that pried into the dim room from between closed curtains in a wonderfully picturesque way. he placed a hand atop mine as a reassuring gesture. the contact was almost too much, imagining it with different connotations, as my mind did with gatsby. simultaneously, it wasn’t enough. 

“i don’t think so. and though you may think otherwise, i don’t think this is over,” gatsby rose, taking the touch of his hand with him toward the double doors to his grand balcony over the bay. the green light could barely be seen through the translucent curtains in daylight. he seemed to fixate on it again, “daisy is still in new york city, and my telephone still sits upon my tabletop.”

a certain hollowness formed in my middle at this, and all thoughts of gatsby fled my mind for george wilson’s cold hands. i was astonished gatsby had thrown the image from my mind for a bit, even in his disheveled state.

“i entered through the garden—“ i bit my tongue hard. gatsby, silhouetting the muffled view of the bay behind the curtain, grew visibly tense. 

“oh,” gatsby’s voice went cold, “did you see the hydrangeas, old sport? they’re in bloom.”

there was a crackling in my ears as i swallowed and clenched my jaw, “i saw— they are.”

gatsby turned around and looked me in the eyes. his countenance was one of stifled emotion. his eyes met mine as he read my expression, clenching his jaw.

the jutting bones of my knuckles turned white as i folded my hands together tighter in my lap. i felt myself freeze like a rabbit at gunpoint, lowering my voice to a harsh whisper, “there wasn’t a drop of blood in sight—no sign of struggle… i don’t understand.”

“i didn’t kill him,” gatsby did likewise, the soft eggshells of his eyes turning piercing.

“what happened?”

gatsby went dead silent again. 

“his heart must have stopped,” he said. he sounded hollow. unsure.

“right before he was going to kill you?” i said, not believing a word from his mouth. he was unblinking, his piercing eyes turning scared. it seemed to sink in just how implausible his claim would be, had it actually happened. 

gatsby began frantically shaking his head and running his hand through his hair. he walked across the room, to a shelf of random valuables to fiddle with something before putting it back the way it was. 

he began to pace from where i sat to the shelf wildly, speaking with an anxious speed, “it’s unbelievable, old sport— he collapsed. i heard click— the safety was off and i turned around and i watched his body shut down in an instant… oh, it all just went down, his eyes shut and his knees went and his hand dropped the gun and it clattered on the ground! i heard his dying breath from the pool steps, old sport, i watched this man die in front of me just before his finger could tap the trigger!”

i sat up straighter in the loveseat in silence. i avoided his eyes.

“nick.”

i looked up at him. his state seemed to worsen just in the time i had looked away. it felt as if i was looking at an entirely different person. 

“you wouldn’t forgive me for lying to you about something as grave as this. i know you wouldn’t. you are a righteous man, old sport. i am not lying to you, not now. how would i kill a man in such a way anyhow? this is not of my doing.”

“alright,” i muttered, a reluctant surrender, “did anyone do it? wolfsheim's folks?”

gatsby swallowed, shutting his eyes tightly, “no, not them, but i suppose you could say that.”

i furrowed my brow, “who?” 

gatsby shook his head.

“i’m listening,” i reiterated.

“well, it’s going to sound silly without explanation… and even then, i don't think you’ll believe me.”

i sighed and stood from the loveseat, “i understand if you killed him. it was in self-defense…”

“old sport— i want you to tell me how,” he raised his voice over a whisper, “how would i kill a man in that way. especially without knowing who he was or that he was coming.”

i stared at gatsby for a moment. he was right, a murder this spotless was near impossible. but i couldn’t believe that george wilson simply died on gatsby’s property right before he pulled the trigger. 

“okay, okay…” i rubbed my eyes and sat back down on the loveseat, “i just find it unbelievable, timed the way it was…”

gatsby’s eyes were glassy, now, “i understand,” he said, voice shaking, “the situation is quite unbelievable, old sport.”

gatsby was crumbling before my eyes in a way i never expected to witness. the golden man had been reduced to a sopping ball of nerves in the middle of the smooth, mahogany floors, shivering from both the central air and pressure of the situation. i didn’t want to watch the man cry or break down. somehow, i still wanted to help, though my suspicions held me from doing so.

i stared at him as he stared at the corner of the coffee table, going back and forth from remaining completely unblinking to squeezing his eyes shut for seconds at a time. furrowing my brow in concern, i leaned forward, hoping to shift his gaze. 

“gatsby?” i said suddenly, his eyes shooting up to meet mine again. he looked pale now, his lips losing their usual natural soft color. they were parted slightly, as if meaning to say something.

“i still trust you, gatsby. i just want the truth so i can help you through this.” i said, searching his distant eyes, “please, let me help you through this. let me help you one more time.”

they seemed to brighten slightly. to truly meet my eyes for an instant. he reached one hand up to clutch his water-clumped hair.

“i can’t— i can’t tell you… it’s not because i don’t trust you— i trust you. i trust you and only you, nick,” he spoke quietly, but with great fervor. my name in his voice thrummed in my head as he pressed two fingers into the corners of his eyes, damming tears, “oh, i’m just so scared— i’m scared, nick, i— please just… don’t leave me here alone with—“

and just as quickly as gatsby began rambling, he stopped. his eggshell eyes seemed to roll back when he fell limp to the mahogany floor in a cross between a splat and a thud. 

just as he said wilson died. in an instant and without cause.

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!! you’ve reached where i stopped. hopefully i will continue and not abandon this.... haha,, 
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @/rubberbandfellow !! im not all that active but i want tgg friends,,,,, lonely,,.,,


End file.
